


Tear Me Apart And Bathe In My Blood

by My_Black_Crimson_Rose6



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Bitterness, Blood, Crying, Dirty Talk, Felix is a dick, Gore, Kissing, Lies, Locus is a surprisingly sweet lover (behind closed doors), Locus your crush is showing, M/M, Nightmares, Not actually in a relationship though, Phone Sex, Possessive Behavior, Staring, Universe Alteration, Vomiting, Wash has a bit of darker personality, Wash is also a hopeless romantic, Washington being a badass, cheating?, injuries, not gonna lie about that fact, not the healthiest of relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-03-25 10:54:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3807715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Black_Crimson_Rose6/pseuds/My_Black_Crimson_Rose6
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tuckers plan worked. It went swimmingly, yet where the hell is Washington?</p><p>[or the UA where everything is the same except when Locus and Felix fell back they were able to grab a 'prize'.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Going to be a two-shot (unless after that second part I get some sudden urge to just write more for it 'cause thats what I always tend to do. Oops)  
> (Not edited as much as it should be)

Something about him irked Washington—irked him more than anything else. A pull forward, a curt reply, and a tilt of his head in passing. Lingering, the feeling lingering—he was losing it. This was it, he was losing his mind or... or nothing.

He was losing him mind; there was nothing else to it.

Wash scrubbed a cloth over his face, hardly even moist as it rubbed the skin of his cheek red before running it down his neck and shoulders. The open water source close by was questionable at best and the showers only ran cold, not ideal in a frozen environment, and turned off a few minutes into any proper shower time. And honestly, Wash just needed to feel like his face was clean—it was the only thing anyone would ever see of him... and _that_ was rare.

He could feel it again. The prickle at the back of his neck, the clench in his gut—the boots on the floor walking towards him. Wash looked up when the paces fell short a foot to the left. “Locus,” he nodded pulling the used facecloth away from his neck and standing from the bench.

“Agent Washington.”

Always so curt, like pulling teeth with him sometimes—and then when he’d get talking all Wash wanted to do was either stuff a sock in it or roll his eyes. He lurked better with his off putting aura when he wasn’t talking. “Anything I can _assist_ you with?” Wash says the word like it was poison on his tongue. The thought that Locus would need his assistance was ridiculous, and if he _did_ he wouldn’t seek him out like this.

The blond man stared at the visor of his helmet, a brow arching when the other man remained silent. He rolled his eyes, of course—just a waste of time. With the lower half of armor still in place and his Kevlar suit gathered around his waist Wash stepped around the other man and made his way back to the sink to wet the cloth again.

He heard a click and hiss of a helmet being pulled off. Wash stared at the reflection of the room behind him—the mirror was horrible, chipped and collections of _something_ gathered on the surface. The man in the mirror tossed his helmet onto the bench where Wash had laid his armor. He couldn’t tear his eyes away when the man began to pull pieces of his armor away from his upper body—the arms went first, then the chest pieces.

Green eyes caught gray-blue in the reflective surface and the man’s dark brown eyebrow rose. Wash had expected something... anything but what his face actually looked like. No obvious scaring save one small mark underneath his left eye—subtle like that section of flesh was coloured in a slightly lighter hue of brown. It was sharp—angular—eyes a little darker around from lack of sleep (or from killing a lot of people and finding some enjoyment out of it).

Kinda like the eyes that would look back at Wash in the mirror (when his hands were still covered in imagined blood of former friends and companions—when the voice at the back of his head finally grew _quiet_ ).

Locus pulled his Kevlar suit down until it bunched around his own waist—mirroring how Wash bunched his own—before making his way towards Washington and the sink. Wash flicked his wrist, finally turning the water on.

He broke eye contact first; glancing down at the cloth in hand before shutting off the water.

He felt lips pressing against his hair line, right over where Epsilon was implanted. Locus was always focused on that spot—when they’d train together (during hours, after hours), anytime Washington was out of that helmet of his the man would stare. Wash could _feel_ it.

Ever since he was a kid people would stare. They’d stare and point, stare and whisper. He fucking _hated it_.

He felt the solid press of another man’s chest against his back (fuck it’s been a long time since he’s felt that), hard calloused fingers sliding over the pale, scarred, freckled, burned, and imperfect skin of his stomach. Wash sighed feeling lips press, sliding down the back of his neck and to his shoulder where the man hooked his chin on and locked eyes with Wash through the mirror.

It’s been a long time since he’s had a chance to enjoy someone’s embrace—even before it was with one man—and Locus... Locus fit what he liked about a male partner. Always a male partner—he liked the idea of a female partner, liked the idea of _romance_ with a woman... but sex (and romance), sex was always with a man.

Locus was drawn to him; if it wasn’t obvious before it was certainly now.

And Wash...

Wash saw something in the man that peaked his interest—something _dangerous_. The blond shut his eyes when Locus took the cloth from him, dragging the cloth over his stomach. Teeth joined lips, sucking at the flesh—nipping, pulling. Wash hung his head forward, “how would you like to join a little _project_ of mine, Agent Washington?” his deep voice rumbled—crisp, clear. The helmet had barely hindered that affect.

 _Shit_ , Wash had a type.

“And what exactly is this _project_ of yours?” Wash hissed back, the cloth felt like ice against his heated skin—sliding up, up over his neck then back down in a lazy stroke. Green eyes staring, studying, searching.

“There’d be blood—lives will be lost.” Lips ghosting over the shell of Washington’s ear, “a pleasure though; something you’ve been lacking.” Wash turned in his embrace and the cloth fell into the sink, no longer of any use. Their noses bumping together as they continued that unspoken staring contest—a battle, a dance, that neither wished to duck around and falter. “A freedom that you have never felt,” he emphasised this point by slotting their lips together.

And Washington... Wash’s knees buckled, a groan rumbling deep in his throat as he slid his arms around the man’s shoulders and neck hands buried in dark brown locks.

Locus pulled away, “what do you say Agent Washington?” he purred.

Wash filled with a bittersweet longing; of what was and what was to come. It burned, it burned in his veins and all throughout his chest—breath catching as he sucked in at the sound.

“I accept.”

\--

He had found himself in bed with the other man from that night on. Their bodies joined as sweat dripped, sticking and sliding from their bodies. It was always so _cold_ at the Feds base, and with another at Washington’s back it was... comforting.

He had made a mistake that first night. He had a slip of consciousness, his body rolling into position like it was a dream—a well practiced dream from a time long ago—until his back faced the other man. When he didn’t automatically wrap his arms around the blond he searched for it—reaching behind him and pulling the man’s arm over his marked stomach, weaving their fingers together.

He realised he had made a mistake when Locus’ chest settled flat against his back. “You surprise me Agent Washington,” and that’s when Wash realised that _this_ wasn’t the man he was used to.

He forced his body to relax, “It’s... I like being held, it’s been a long time.” Locus’ arm tightened around him and the other snaked under his torso to fully embrace him. The man didn’t say anything but place light kisses along the junction of his neck and shoulder.

Wash liked that.

\--

The days were simple; training and going over Rebel movements and plans. The Feds looked to Wash just like the Reds and Blues had looked (and still look) to Wash for guidance and leadership. Washington wasn’t included in every tactical plan, but so was Locus—that lessened whatever worry (a voice, always a voice in his head whispering things he couldn’t catch) he had.

The days were simple; hand to hand combat training where Locus would attack the other with a savagery that surprised those gathered around to witness the little full armor spar. They’d make the other bruise and soar, and the rare times a spot of blood would hit the inside of their visor much to their annoyance.

The days were simple; a tilt of the head in the others direction, eyes always watching.

The days were simple... the nights were _fun_.

Filled with groans, moans, and choked off sobs of passion. The bed creaking under the strain of rocking—the tempo quick and hard, Wash would run his hands up and over Locus’ shoulders and neck and up into his mass of hair.

And when they were spent Wash would curl up of his side with his back pressed to Locus’ chest and his arms wrapped around him. That’s when Wash would whisper things—pointless at times. Something that he remembered growing up—his grandparents had a tire swing in the back that Wash used to use to help him climb up the tree. Sometimes it was a dumb thing that happened during project Freelancer.

“I was a dumb kid then,” he’d stop when he felt the hand cupping his face and turning him in to a soft, brief—uncharacteristic—kiss. He had dropped that conversation after, settling back into Locus’ arms and continued on with his stories after Locus prompted him to continue.

Some nights Locus would whisper his own stories against the back of his neck. Some things about the jobs he took—never going into huge details on those but Wash never really did when he’d explain his own past missions. Those were locked away, stories for when they trusted each other more than to share a bed and to not kill the other on the training floor. Sometimes Locus would talk about smells—growing up he had said everything around him had an overpowering aroma. He’d pick apart those moments painting a swirl of colour in Wash’s mind of the memory.

\--

Wash’s fingers smoothed over the fabric of Locus’ Kevlar collar. He had noticed that the other man’s collar would away lay awkward for the longest time as soon as he’d dress in the mornings, ever since the first morning they woke up together. The first few times Wash had fixed it it wasn’t anything romantic—it bothered him, and he’d catch Locus trying to adjust it throughout the day when he thought no one was noticing.

The first four times it wasn’t anything romantic.

The fifth and sixth time became a habit.

The rest... well during the rest Locus would rest his forehead against Wash’s until he finished fussing with the collar of the Kevlar suit. “You’ve been wearing these things for years,” Wash muttered once he finally got the material to lay flat against the man’s neck. Gray-blue eyes caught green and he raised a brow, “I don’t understand how you have everyone convinced that—”

The man cut him off with a kiss, thumb brushing over his freckled and scared cheek. Locus pulled away, resting their foreheads together again. He needed to message Felix again—confirm what he had stated before.

“—you’re some cold hearted mercenary even though you can’t even dress yourself properly.” Locus snapped his eyes open and threw a glare at the smirking man. “It’s true,” Washington teased placing one last peck against Locus’ lips before grabbing his helmet and securing it into place.

Locus watched silently as the ex-Freelancer snuck out of his room.

\--

It hurt. It hurt more than anything he was trying to prepare himself for. He’s been betrayed by a former lover before—shot by him too, and abandoned by that same man. Forced to work with him chasing a group of idiots around the map—it... it didn’t matter about the past. No matter what happened with his past it did nothing to lessen the blow delivered then and there.

It hurt—everything; the gun leveled at him, the plan, the _words_. Fuck that hurt the most—how he talked down to him. It caused bile to rise in his throat and his eyes to prick in a moment of weakness.

It was Maine all over again; wasn’t it?

When Carolina made her move and everything slowed... Wash fired. He fired and told the rest of them to do the same. It felt good to pull the trigger—killing people in black armor. _It felt fucking fantastic_.

\--

Tucker had a plan; he had a plan and it _worked_. It worked and now everyone on Chorus knew what was going on and it was the moment before a war would break out. A war that Carolina wasn’t sure they’d be ready for—not completely anyways.

The Reds and Blues had their dumb luck and their unwillingness to just lay down and _die_. She respected that about them, they were strong in their own way. Mostly stupid, but strong of heart—in an odd way. “We can’t find Wash,” she turned facing the pink armored Red.

She waited for the kicker; nothing came. “ _Excuse_ me?” her tone dipped dangerously.

“We’ve looked everywhere and we can’t find him anywhere.”


	2. My Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Washington knew that this wasn't healthy, knew that he shouldn't take him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so here's the thing.  
> We all know Washington would do anything for freedom... so i'm taking that route. That and making him a bit of a hopeless romantic (and by a bit I mean a lot).  
> Washington as a hopeless romantic? C'mon now! I love characters like that!

There was something that Wash loved about the classics and it seemed like Felix shared that same love. The theatrics, the romance—as much as he scoffed at the romantic notion of his back-story his classic villainess (villainism?) was laughable.

 And so was this chair.

“C’mon Wash, we already know you’re up,” his voice grating his already pounding head. Wash’s neck hung awkwardly in his hunched over position. Everything hurt—fucking hell Locus really went all out in that dirty trick of his. “Or is it that you just don’t want to talk to us? Aww,” the cool bite of his knife sunk into the skin on his neck. Just pushing, not yet breaking the skin, tilting Washington’s chin up to get a proper look at him. “There we go, there’s the pretty face.”

They had stripped him of bits and pieces of his armor—boots, gloves, helmet and chest (and the included back part) piece being the most noticeable. It was strategic in their standpoint, if he got out of these bindings (which he will do, it’s a shitty chair remember?) he’d have a huge target painted that just screams _shoot me right here_ and even fighting hand to hand will prove a challenge. No boot and gloves.

“We had an agreement, remember?” Felix purred using the tip of his blade to push the blond’s head up higher.

Wash sat up, getting as far from the outstretched blade as possible to glare. “I made no _agreement_ with _you_ ,” he tensed when Felix’s gloved hand reached forward and took his face painfully in hand.

“Oh you’re just so cute!” His fingers tightened, forcing Wash’s lips to pucker. He sheathed his knife and quickly unclasped the clips of his helmet, pulling orange, black and gray armor off and tossing it behind him. “Locus didn’t tell you?”

Felix leaned in _real_ close, forcing Wash to look somewhere across the room while doing so. And there he was—his lungs burned, every breath tasted of ash and poison. It bubbled in his gut and an ache formed between his shoulders. There was Locus, seated on the corner of a table with his helmet discarded. “Too busy planning out a future with white picket fences and a dog or two?”

“Felix.”

“I’m a cat person.”

Felix stepped away, running a hand through his helmet hair—brown and blond and _over the top_. It suited him, painfully so. All flashy. He turned his back to Washington and held his arms out wide, “he’s a cat person.” He pursed his lips and shifted his weight from one foot to the other; completely at ease.

Wash wanted to make him bleed.

The legs of the chair wiggled when Wash would pull at his bindings in a certain way. Felix was starting up another commentary, but this time it was directed at his partner in crime. “So you just had to go and get yourself a little crush and then drag him with us. And here everyone thinks that _I’m_ the liability!” At least now it sounded like Wash was a mistake—a misstep in their plan (it was better than the alternative. Slightly, it dulled the ache _a little_ ), a little blip in their radar.

With Locus’ attention finally off him Wash could finally suck in a breath and remember the basic training he went through _many_ moons ago. He’ll have to throw his weight back to break the chair and he’ll have to pop the legs off the chair first.

_1..._

With the cock of Felix’s waist Wash clenched his eyes shut and pulled. He pulled on the restraints containing his legs. The chair legs snapped and the two other men in the room quickly turned their attention to him.

“Son of a bitch,” Felix’s snarl sounded almost _impressed_.

_2..._

Wash quickly used his now freed legs to throw himself backwards and shattering the old metal chair. The pieces clanking loudly against the metal flooring; Felix cursed again, diving out of the way when a sharpen piece of the broken chair flew towards his chest and lodged itself into the wall behind him.

_3..._

Washington tackled Locus. The moment between throwing that piece of metal at Felix and that first punch that connected with the side of Locus’ face was a blur—just seeing Locus’ face, the corners of those eyes softening when Felix would turn his attention away from his partner. It made Wash furious, _it hurt_ , fuck it hurt!

Everything said, everything done! Just a few soft gazes were supposed to make it better? Fuck that, **_fuck that_**! His eyes _weren’t_ watering; they weren’t—not even a little as he tried to get a few more hits in now that Locus’ arms were covering a blooded face. (His eyes were watering, and everything was hurting—this was just like Maine all over again. Washington really did have a type.)

Felix wrapped an arm around his neck, hand grabbing and pulling the blond off his partner. His heart in his throat as he reached back and up for anything—anything to grab onto—he found a handle behind him just as Felix threw him from the fallen man.

Wash landed with a snarl and his teeth through the inside of his cheek—and one of Felix’s knives under his chest. He swallowed; his could’ve just killed himself without even knowing. “Fucking hell!” Felix exclaimed, boots stomping behind him as the man laughed. “Kitty has claws alright!”

Wash slowly pulled himself up, and behind him Felix was righting Locus as well. He kept his stolen blade hidden, fingers twitching to right his hold on the blade so he could quickly throw it if need be. Felix’s easy going posture returned through a glint in his eyes spoke otherwise to the laidback attitude. His fingers moving to the spot where he kept his main blade—empty—his expression visibly darkened.

Wash held up the blade, flicking it up lazily and catching it without breaking eye contact with the eccentric man. Wash tilted his head—he was trapped, he knew that, but if he was going to go down it wasn’t going to be without wiping the prick’s smugness off his face.

Felix pulled his pistol from his holster, “don’t bring a knife to a gun fight Wash.” And the smug expression was back just as quickly as it left. “Even you’re not that suicidal,” his tone dipped as he cooed.

Washington wanted to bury this blade into his eye socket. “Then you must know me even less that you thought,” he replied. Felix narrowed his eyes, unsure if he should in fact believe the man or not. Another ten seconds passed and Wash finally sighed flicking the blade a foot away from Felix’s boot and slowly raising his hands in surrender.

“I’m done.”

\--

He was on planet still; he knew that much—he didn’t really care much either way. The rest of his armor thrown across the room shortly after he was escorted into his new living arrangements, Wash sat on the only furniture in his new _room_ with his Kevlar suit bunched around his waist. A room with a bed—that’s it, that was his room.

“Agent Washington.”

Wash didn’t look up from the scars on his hands.

“David.”

That made him tense. Eyes clenching shut, Wash sighed and eventually looked up. He knew that he should never had told the other to call him David in bed—he should’ve ignored the awkward feeling when the man would call him Washington (never Wash, always Agent Washington if he wasn’t in bed with the ex-Freelancer).

The man took a seat beside him, his armor cool against Washington’s skin when it brushed against him. “You’re troubled,” his helmet made his voice rasp. Wash only noticed it after all those nights spent with the man’s voice in his ear; like a caress. Wash stared at the green paint on the man’s helmet—there was a spot of blood smudged in the colouring, Wash frowned at it—he felt too naked, to _bare_ with his Kevlar suit around his waist.

Washington stood, not stepping away from the bed nor the man as he began to tug the suit tight suit back up his body. “Of course I am,” he hissed struggling with the sleeves until they finally sat over his body. He felt _wrong_ in the suit, like it hurt—too tight, too scratchy. “You lied,” he turned back to the man, his Kevlar suit open over his chest. “You _used_ me,” Locus unsnapped the clasps of his helmet and pulled it off, “you tried to kill me.”

Locus looked the same—same sharp features and dark skin, same full lips and soft gaze. Everything was the same safe the bruising from where Wash had hit him.

“Your _companions_ weren’t scheduled to arrive for another day at the very least,” the man snuck an arm around the blond; his moves slow in case the other decided to move away. Wash didn’t know why he didn’t, he didn’t know why he allowed the man to wrap his arms around him and press their foreheads together. Maybe it was some stupid hope lingering in him, some dumb feeling that _maybe_ someone actually cared enough about him to come back (to not leave). “It was a miscalculation, one that I hadn’t thought that I _had_ to calculate.”

Wash shut his eyes; the look Locus was giving him was too much— _just too much._ “What was supposed to happen then?” He remembered that proposition that Locus brought to him; blood, pleasure, _freedom_. He was always asking Wash to join him... and Wash had agreed. Freedom was always the one thing that would drive him; he’s been caged for too long. He’s been the last or near last choice for anyone’s partner (anyone but Maine).

Arms tighten around his waist and Wash fought the urge to open his eyes. He wanted to see the man’s expression as he explained his failed plan, but he didn’t trust himself to just give in to temptation and kiss him—take him back and kiss both their breaths away. “Take you away from the Federation army, the population would kill each other, I’d get paid and we’d...”

Wash opened his eyes when the man trailed off; green eyes roaming over the white man’s face—taking in every freckle and scar and bruise. The blond finally sighed, “Be free to do about as we please?” Locus’ answering hum was all he needed. It was a romantic notion—so incredible sappy and old-timey romantic that Washington almost wanted to laugh and sob about.

A house with a white picket fence and some animals (mostly cats) where an ex-freelancer and a mercenary would spend the remainder of their days in.

Wash slid his hands up the man’s chest plate, up his shoulders and around his neck. He frowned staring down at creased collar of Locus’ under suit. “Seriously?” he huffed fingers numbly fiddling around with the fabric until it lay flat against Locus’ neck. “You’re a grown man,” he returned his gaze to green just the man leaned in a pressed a kiss against his lips.

It was so familiar—domestic, natural. _Shit_ , Wash wanted this more than anything else. He wanted to feel like _he_ was the important one for once—needed, wanted, valued... _loved_.

One peck turned to two, then three, then four. The fourth led to the opening of lips and the slide of tongues; slow, soft. A steady press of hands holding him, keeping him flushed against the man as the mercenary slowly began to tear him apart. Pulling pieces of Wash’s wall down and watching as he slowly fell—fell harder than he ever remembered, fell faster.

The slide of tongue turned to Wash clinging, holding, _drowning_. He whined, pulling away from the other man to catch him breath. Locus’ forehead still pressed against his as they panted, “its why I have you.”

Washington shouldn’t have swoon at those words; he shouldn’t have swooned at the tone. He did, he did and he could feel himself giving in to the hope and romantic notion of just _happily ever after_ (after leaving a mass collection of corpses in their wake). “If you fuck me over again Locus I will put a bullet through your head, and I will walk away like this never happened,” was he telling himself this or the man?

Washington wasn’t sure.

“As you wish.”

\--

“—and they’re all housed right here. And I can give them to you.”

Wash joined them in the control room, some of the bodies nudged away into less traveled areas in the room. Felix nodded towards him his posture screaming annoyance, this man in front of him intimidated him and Wash understood why after he took to standing beside Locus.

“Think we should listen to him Wash?” Felix jutted his chin towards him, the visor of his helmet reflecting the lights overhead. The former Counselor stared at him, eyes narrowing in thought—Wash snapped his attention away from the man and nodded towards both Locus and Felix.


	3. My Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sharkface remembers Wash, Price gets a shave, Tucker and Carolina are hoping for the best, and Felix is in disbelief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the idea of 'younger than what everyone thinks'!Wash. It makes me giggle so that's what I did... a long with some more canon compliant stuff.
> 
> Shorter than the other two, but I didn't really plan on writing anymore of this so just call it a bonus! Whooo~~

“You might remember him, Agent Washington, he had fought both you and Agent Carolina during the mission you were sent to retrieve the sarcophagus.” Wash had fallen in step a half step behind the man; a habit of walking behind a superior that he had tried to right himself of just too short. He was about to take an extra step to match pace with the man—that would be too obvious.

Washington tilted his head at the memories; it was the mission when Maine got his throat shot out. Everything else was dull beside that point when Wash insisted that he went back there after dropping off the sarcophagus—he had held his hands to Maine’s bloody throat. “I don’t remember much of that mission,” he replied tone level as to give away as little as possible.

He might be in a relationship with Locus and he might have an agreement with Felix to not slit the other’s throat (or do anything overly damaging to the other), but that did not mean that he felt anywhere comfortable enough with sharing his romantic history with the man that later became The Meta.

The former Freelancer Counselor hummed, as if he was remembering an important piece of information—Wash didn’t like that sound. “I almost forgot that you and Maine were in a romantic relationship when he sustained his injuries,” Wash was expecting it— _holy shit_ was he expecting that move, yet he still stumbled and caught his footing when those words were said and the two mercenaries in front of them turned.

“Ooh, does Wash have a fondness for the _bad guys_?”

Wash rolled his shoulders; he shouldn’t have let them keep this man. Sure, he would be a great asset against Carolina when they’d face her but he had _his_ records—he knew everything about him, or at least everything that was documented. His file was huge, he was in the system for a longer time that the rest of the Freelancers. He didn’t want anyone actually knowing how _young_ he actually was—he liked it when everyone thought he was in his late thirties, some even liked to joke that he was in his forties. He had even insured that all his documentations made him out to be (at least) a few years older than he actually was.

There weren’t many people left who even _knew_ Washington’s real age; only Carolina, himself and the man he was now grabbing by the collar of his orange jumpsuit and pressing his combat knife against the man’s throat. “I’m not letting you live so you can feed their curiosity about me, you’re here to give us information on Carolina that _I_ don’t already know—you’re here to provide information on any outstanding Freelancer technology that _I_ haven’t spent some prime years of my adult life hunting down.”

The blade pressed deeper, the man’s face passive as he took in the information. “You won’t kill me Agent Washington. You just said that you need me for information that you don’t already have,” his eyes narrowed just a pinch.

Wash pressed the blade closer to the man’s jugular; he released the man’s collar and popped the clasps on his helmet. Pushing the armored headgear up to show off just how _unimpressed_ he was with the man. He returned his hand to the man’s jumper once his helmet was firmly lodged on top of his head. “I thought you’ve read my files Price. You should know what I’d do for my freedom, and you’re the only one that I see as a challenge to that.”

The man took in the scars, the pale freckled skin that hardly anyone save Maine had seen during Project Freelancer, the hints of gray blending into the wheat blond hairs of his temples, the curl in his lip and the look in his eye. “Understood, Agent,” the man replied and Wash dragged the blade up the underside of the man’s jaw, and then followed the edge to the chin.

“You missed a spot while shaving,” was Washington’s only explanation when he removed himself from the man’s personal space returned his helmet to its normal position and the knife to it sheath.

\--

The man named only Sharkface remembered him and when Wash got a look at that tattoo on his chest his memory flashed to fire and a helmet—yeah, Agent Washington remembered this man as well. Felix placed a hand against the man’s naked chest and pushed. “Now now, behave. We’re all on the same side now and after we’re done our mission we can all go about and kill each other if we still wish to!”

The man backed down, “if you can get a flamethrower I’ll fuck up as much shit that I can for you.” The man looked away from Washington to Locus then finally at the smaller man standing in front of him.

\--

“I don’t fucking get it!” Tucker slammed his fist against the wall of the newest base that they took. Carolina sighed, looking to Epsilon for help. The A.I held his hands up, he wasn’t about to get into that mess.

Carolina didn’t want to either but they needed to get some more information out of the captured pirates before Tucker worked himself into an anger. She could never figure out which Tucker would appear before questioning when they’d take control of a new base. He flipped between… well; normal Tucker and the angry Tucker that was slowly starting to appear more and more with each new dead end they’d reach with information of Agent Washington.

“Captain Tucker, I need to gather yourself before I start questioning the prisoners,” the man whirled around to face her. His shoulders rising like he was prepared to _fight_ her on the topic. “We’re no closer to finding Wash if you can’t keep your head on your shoulders. Am I understood?”

His shoulders dropped, “understood.”

\--

The ride back to Chorus was taking longer than the ride off the planet. It was rare for all four of them to go without their helmets, but after three days stuck in the stuffy ship while their main host of new recruits were slowly making their way somewhere behind them they all silently agreed to just go without the helmets.

“You’re a lot younger than what I would have expected,” Sharkface spoke up from the other side of ship. “Just how old were you when we fought?”

He was being obvious in his display of public affection by using Locus’ lap as his own personal pillow. The bench was uncomfortable and Locus was more than willing if the hand over the blond’s neck and the thumb caressing his jaw was anything to go by. “I don’t know, twenty maybe?”

Price weaved his fingers together in his lap, “that assignment was approximately a year after you obtained your full agency.”

“Whoa, whoa whoa! Stop right there,” Felix waved a hand out in front of him. “That’s bull shit; your documents said you joined Project Freelancer shortly before your twenty first birthday.” He pointed between the former Freelancer and the Counselor, brows drawn down in confusion.

Wash slowly pushed himself up into a seated position, rolling his shoulders and neck. “I got all my files changed—new ID issued, transcript, medical records. Didn’t want my new _teammates_ to think any less of me because I’m at least five years younger than some of them,” Washington shrugged, glancing to his left Locus was staring at him as if someone had just flipped a huge chunk of his world upside-down.

Wash almost wanted to laugh—almost. The man will pick his brain about it all later; he might get information out of him or he might not—Wash would have to see just what kind of tactic that man would attempt. “How fucking old were you?” Felix snapped sliding across the bench until Wash was sandwiched between the two mercenaries. “You better not be fucking _younger_ than me!”

Washington shook his head, “I’m not saying anything.” He could give them a hint; a wild goose chase through documentation on every single David they could get a hold of. Oh, now that was a fun thought. “My age is with my former name, if you can find that you’ll know.” And the look that darkened Felix’s face was priceless.

Agent Washington smiled.

\--

Carolina didn’t know what to say, what was the proper thing to even say to something like that? Washington was working with the Pirates—maybe they threatened him, maybe he was using them and buying them all time before they strike. That would be Wash’s way; she’s only just been recently introduced to his new self-sacrificing ways but the Reds and Blues had filled her in on their time with him.

“Maybe he’s using them,” Tucker’s broke through her thoughts, “maybe he’s just buying us time so he can get our shit together and tear those sons of bitches a new asshole.”

She hoped for all their sakes that Tucker was right.


	4. My Scorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was more to Wash then people seemed to realize--more than what they plan for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thing with Sharkface and Wash wasn't not planned for this but damn it dark!Wash is kinda fun to deal with. All cold anger that is hidden underneath everything. 
> 
> Locington is still the main ship for this, but at the moment those two are still in an unhealthy place where they aren't actually talking about the shit that happened and the lack of talking has stacked MORE shit on top of it and... 
> 
> This is why communication is key in relationships. This is also a "what not to do" for relationships. Don't try to kill your love interest then kidnap them then expect everything to be back to normal again. Please don't.

Washington was their little secret.

He wasn’t brought up in their meetings; he wasn’t in view—sometimes not even in the room. He would glare at Price and Sharkface, not trusting them—there was always something more, finding those two on the prison ship (finding _Price_ on that prison ship) made too many warning bells go off in Washington’s head.

He couldn’t ignore it—Felix and Locus could focus on the other matters, have them worry about the Reds and Blues. If they needed Washington he was there, but until then he would linger and watch with a suspicious gaze. He couldn’t trust Price—not again, and because of that and just how much time he spent talking to the other man Washington couldn’t drop his guard around him either.

He remained behind with Sharkface, listening to the conversations that he and Price shared—soaking in the man’s anger and need for vengeance. Washington would take a seat near the Former Insurrection soldier, comment on the progression of his suit—finding a middle ground between what they could and could not discuss.

They even traveled planet side together; Washington’s helmet firmly strapped, clasped and secured to his head. “What do you want Freelancer?” Sharkface held his helmet up to the artificial light, checking over his paintjob. “We’re currently on the same side and I’m no traitor—I’ll kill you when you’re no longer of any use to me or my _partners_ ,” he didn’t like the term, made it seem like this was more than what it was—that there was a semblance of trust between any of them.

Wash crossed his ankle over the other, leaning back against the wall in front of him. “It’s not _you_ I’m concerned with but Price. You’re aware of his history with Freelancer?” the man’s narrowing eyes gave away that there was something more he should be let in on—that he wouldn’t enjoy the information Washington had for though he wanted it. He pushed off, crossing the haul and taking the seat next to that scarred man. “Price was the Director’s second—he had handed out assignments more than once. Direct access to any and all information you need to know about the Director, about the project, about the AI. Price has had his hands in anything and everything. When M.O.I went down I wasn’t able to track the man, even when the Director was pulling my strings.”

His helmet went dark, the airlocks in his helmet hissed as it released and the man removed it from his head. Sharkface’s teeth ground together as he set the helmet down beside his on the bench. “If you see my scarred face, I’m seeing yours,” he answered, turning his attention back to the blond and his story at hand. “Now, repeat that again—if you will.”

Washington did—he told him about the project, about CT and how she switched sides and was hunted down because of it, he informed him of what Washington was able to gather when he went digging and what he found had Price on it. A signature there, a stamp of approval there, voice cognition and thumb print analysis. Wash laughed at it all; he sounded like some lunatic with his _it’s all fucking connected_ , yet the look that sparked it Sharkface’s brown rimmed iris, the expand and constrict of his pupil gave way to just how much the man was thinking about it as well.

He settled back in his seat, scarred tissue twitching as he relaxed—processed the information. “It makes sense,” he said after five counts of three-hundred-fifty-seven. “Makes enough sense to kill you _after_ the other Freelancer and Price—we’ll see after that if the feeling remains.”

Wash couldn’t help but shake his head, to smile and snicker at the thought of the situation. Could he even consider this progress? He’d call this progress. Bonding may be a stretch though. “I guess that’s all I could ask for,” he ran his hand through his hair until the front strands stuck up.

The other _Mercenaries_ that were recently recruited settled in their seats around them, some heads popping as they fought off sleep—the landing was longer than normal, with first time fliers quick to nauseate at even the hint of turbulence. “Why are you with Locus of all people?” He tilted his head towards him, remaining eyebrow lifting into his hair at Washington jaw slackened expression.

"I don't know how to answer that,” his eyes narrowed glancing around at the others onboard with them.

"You know exactly how to answer that, you just don't know how to _word it_ properly without one of these idiots reporting back to him.” He jutted his chin out towards the group diagonal to them.

Wash huffed, rolling his eyes. This was easier, this almost made it seem like they weren’t just conversing about wither of not he’d try to kill him later. Like some seriously fucked up friends who refused to talk about that damn weather. "That's making it sound all bad."

"Well, we're bonding don't let the audience ruin this key bonding experience." His lip twitched, brow raising in a silent question. Was _he_ not the one thinking about bonding experience before this? Was _he_ not the one that reached out first to turn him against Price—something that they’d find in common. When Washington didn’t answer the man leaned it, filling in the silence _for him_. "How about you whisper it in my ear then, give this lot something to report back on."

Now _that_ was a tempting offer. After the lies that he was fed with—the _kidnapping_ , the prisoner treatment, the silent parade around with everyone _knowing_ that he was only there because Locus was fucking him. After the changing of sides and the re-introduction to his own personal demons of his past.

There was something shifting in the Mercenaries, something that Locus wasn’t telling him when he’d report in—it dug into him. Brought up the feeling that Locus would _leave him again_ —would lie and betray everything that he promised; that damn white picket fence, the ideal of _forever_ in a happily ever after. It ate away the hopeless romantic part of him, snapping the veil back for a moment for Washington to _think_. Think and plan and _plot_ —there was a reason why he’s outlived all the others, and it couldn’t just be his luck.

There were many parts to David Washington—many parts that he’s gone and buried, hidden away to dig up later. Darker parts tucked away from when he needed it most. And that, that part right there was the one that he was listening to. That was the part of himself that made him act, made him think the way that he was. Yes, give something for them to report on—give Locus something to _steam_ about. To remember that the _thing_ (because it wasn’t a relationship, Locus _never_ made it a relationship and Washington didn’t trust his heart enough to ask) they had is fragile, its hurt and shaken and Washington isn’t going to sit by a be used by another man.

He leaned in, cupping the man’s _good_ cheek as he whispered into the scarred ear. "Maybe it was desperation, starved of touch—wanting to have someone to share my bed with. Maybe it’s just a habit now," he made his lips brush the shell of his ear not sure if the scar tissue made him hypersensitive or numb—the heavy exhale by his own ear suggested more along the lines of hypersensitivity. He was playing with fire, poking at a bear—toying with something that he had no idea of how it would conclude, yet he did it anyways. He continued, “It wouldn’t be the first time enemies found pleasure in each other, a bond of sorts possibly—and it wouldn’t be the last.”

Sharkface shifted, teeth grazed against the man’s ear lobe. “Are you offering,” the mixed texture of his lips grazed over his ear, over his jaw where he nipped at blond’s freckled jaw. “What would _Locus say_ ,” he let out a mock gasp, lips pressing and sliding lower down his jaw, to his chin—to the _underside of his chin_ when the blond tipped his head back.

“ _He’s_ the one that left me alone with a man that clearly falls into _my type_ ,” their noses bumped together, “ _Locus_ was the one that made it clear that he and I are merely fucking.” A promise of some _happily ever after_ is not enough to suddenly warrant a dating label—not after he lied and tried to kill him more than once. “He recently tried to kill me,” Wash added, eyes fluttering shut as the man nipped and kissed his way back up his throat to his lips—lingering.

“Sounds like a horrible boyfriend.”

It was different than kissing Locus—the dual textures, the fact that the man liked to bite and pull at his lips, sliding his tongue against Wash’s and grabbing a fistful of hair. The man was demanding—all take charge and... and consuming. Like the fire he had marking his body—igniting into heat with every touch, bite, breath and pull.

“He’s going to shoot you first,” Wash’s grin devilish when they finally pulled away, lips already bruising from the harsh treatment.

\--

Felix laughed—laughed that over the top, forced laugh of his that did nothing but grate on Locus’ already straining nerves. Washington was out in orbit because of some paranoid feeling about Price and their _other_ dramatic colleague, and the blond was picking up on _something_.

“It’s funny that you think you can hide the whole _Meta Suit_ thing from Mr. ‘I used to fuck the man meat that filled the suit’. When you ever tell him—or _y’know_ ,” he snapped his fingers, “ _finds out_ —‘cause Agent Washington _will_ find out.” He tapped Locus’ chest plate with his knuckles, “make sure I’m there, yeah? I wanna see the _rage_ on that man’s face!”

Agent Washington _wouldn’t_ find out—Locus will insure of that.


	5. My Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felix is a douche bag, what else is new?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Gore and vomiting.

Locus greeted him with a palm pressed to the centre of his chest plate and turning him on his heel. “You and the Shark are coming with us,” he doesn’t properly greet him, not how he’d wish too. He wants to tear that helmet from his head and smoother his lips with his but they needed to get there before their opposition.  

The Shark and Freelancer spare a glance at the other; the man in black and red shrugged following behind his new business partner. Washington sighed, checking over his primary firearm before falling into step behind the two. Locus slips a combat knife from one of his pouches, holding it out towards the side Wash was closing in from.

The Shark carried on without a second glance, continued on to the warthog where Felix waited in the shotgun position. Sharkface mounted the turret, holstering his weapon and relaxing behind the large gun.

Wash’s finger wrapped around the gifted knife, accepting it—pulling it from its sheath and testing the blade, he nodded at the make and balance. It was a good blade, well made one at that too. “Sharkface,” Locus began, “was that the first?”

Washington slipped the weapon onto his belt, fastening it securely. “That was the first kiss, yes.” He circled behind the taller man, hand pressed to the small of the man’s back as he rounded. “You need to stop lying to me Locus,” the ex-Freelancer warned, hand dropping to his side as he tilted his head towards the man. “Is there something bothering you—that doesn’t involve the kiss between Sharkface and myself?”

His reply curt, “no.” It sounded force in his own ears—even he knew that it wouldn’t hold. But Washington didn’t reply, didn’t comment on it before turning and making his way to a different vehicle. “David,” Locus called, breath catching when the man’s next step faltered in his quick walking pattern—he did not stop, but the hesitation was enough for him for the moment.

He wouldn’t lose David Washington to that damn shark.

He mounted the warthog, twisting the key in the ignition while Felix cooed from the passenger seat. The vehicle roared to life, sailing over the uneven terrain as they sped over. “Oooh, amour. This is why I don’t mix my sex life with work—also probably why I’ll never fall in love too. Love’s for suckers,” Locus ignored it, having worked so long with the man came with the self taught abilities of ignoring the man when he’d talk.

“You shouldn’t piss off the ass you’re trying to fuck,” Sharkface warned, “don’t know how he’d react if someone let it slip that Hargove was sending you the Meta suit.”

That man’s voice was new; new and a _threat_. A threat to everything that he’s wanted—David Washington, the Meta suit now. He won’t lose to that man, won’t give him a moment of victory over him. “Shut up,” he snapped, ignoring the laughter from Felix at his reply. Felix hated the man more than he did, more than Felix and Locus disliked each other as well.

“Bitch got told,” Felix mocked just as the Warthog slammed down into a pothole and both Sharkface and Felix cursed at the harsh bump.

\--

Sharkface turns away from the men gathered around the portal, jerks his head to side and points to a few men gathered close to him to follow him as he scopes the area. He had a job to do while the others stood there with their fingers up their asses.

Wash steps forward, ignoring the discussion the prophesy brought. He kneeled in front of the portal staring into the white light—who would’ve gone with Carolina? There’d be Tucker, of course, and maybe... Wash stood with a shake of his head.

 _Maybe_.

“Hey Wash,” Felix’s voice sounds too cheerful for his taste, too happy and _smug_. Wash rounds on his heels, eyes widen—he’s falling before he knows it. Cursing out Felix’s name before he knows what’s even happening.

\--

His mind is flashing; a blink and he’s there—another and he’s there. A series of snapshots as if the gateway is trying to find just that _one thing_.

He mind jumps again...

He's no longer in his suit. His eyes open again and he sees himself strapped onto a table, Washington blinks again and he's on the table. He's getting the Epsilon implant. And it’s like everything starts failing him, all over again--the memories, the pain. He's clawing at his neck all over again, his hair and jaw to get it to stop. The scars open up, swelling with blood as he tears out his hair and chunks of his neck in his panic—in his pain. In his desperation to claw the second mind from within him before it killed him too.

_ALLISON! STOP! STOP! ALLISON!_

It goes on—on and on until... nothing.

He wakes again and he's pulling himself out of the fallen MOI, broken and bleeding. Wash steps from the spacecraft and into the snow—stumbling into the blizzard blowing through until he's fallen again.

"Yo," York's arm wraps around his shoulder and he's brought up to his feet again, though he knows better to look he does it anyways. They’re no longer in the snow though the room around them is still a sickening hospital white in colour. Watching the man's face crack into his famous scar, and then blood pouring off him, eye growing dull—Washington stomach clenched. "I should've come back," Wash forces himself to look away and towards the others _just standing there_.

South's head half destroyed and brain matter falling from the wound as it oozed with blood, North’s form visibly bleeding, Tex has the Epsilon unit sticking out of her head, CT is clutching her gut with blood pooling between her fingers, Florida has a huge whole through his chest, Maine's skin bloated, discoloured and disgusting and it only grew worse when he opened his mouth and water poured from it. Wash couldn’t look towards the scattered mess that was Wyoming.

Beside him York glowed bright, skin cracking away to release more fiery blinding light. He dropped to his knees and covered his head just as York's shell blew up and took the other Freelancers with him. _Make it stop—I know I’m not the warrior, I didn’t want it._

Hands were grabbing his shoulders and pulling him up again, removing his helmet and their own. "Locus," Wash's hands shake as he presses his hands to the man's neck, fingers looking for the crease of his suit where the man was never to get it to stop folding and finding none. He wants to sob, curl up and apologize for everything—for not trusting him, for thinking that the man was lying to him, for kissing Sharkface.

Felix's grinning face appeared over Locus' shoulder and his chin resting on the man’s shoulder, "you should see it Wash, I can't believe you're missing it."

He turned with the assistance of the two mercenaries, the fire reflecting off his visor as the Chorus army burned. Felix stepping around the pair pointing to bodies hanging up, he names them all until only Carolina remains. He turns back to Wash and Locus at that, holding his arms out as Wash's former CO burned.

The gun cocks behind Wash's head and he turns, "you've outlived your worth, Agent Washington."

\--

They had sent someone else in, his vision shorter than the blond—he had been thrown in then tossed out before Washington could even show his face. Locus’ fists clenched at his side and Felix sighed, “loverboy is _fine_.”

And just like that Wash stumbles out without a word—no curse on his lips or a shutter in his form. He straightens under their gaze, ignoring the silent question both was asking—Wash didn't answer, didn't say a word before storming past with his stomach churning. Locus wanted to reach for him, pull him in and inquire about what he saw—why did it take him so long?

There wasn’t time, he’d corner him later—after he became the warrior of the prophesy. Locus turned back to the portal, steeling his resolve and with that both Locus and Felix declared that they were going in.

\--

Sharkface found his helmet tossed towards some crates; following the sounds of violent vomiting, he found Washington hugging a tree and vomiting beside it as he cried—body shaking, breath catching between the heaves and pile spewing from his throat.

Sharkface gives him a moment to collect himself—until he’s done, after he's cleaned himself up to the best of his ability before drawing attention to himself. Wash turned, accepting his helmet that Sharkface holds out towards him, and then the tug into the man's chest that the action really was meant to hide.

"I saw them die again—saw the effects of my selfishness, what my freedom will do to them," he hissed into the man's neck as he holds him. Admitting that maybe, just _maybe_ , Washington wasn’t as put together as he liked to pretend that he was.

"They'd die either way Washington, no use chasing ghosts. All its leads to is more ghosts." He calms for awhile, enough to return his helmet onto his head and join the rest of the mercenaries by the vehicles as they waited for word that Locus and Felix returned.

The calm doesn’t last though; Sharkface wasn’t really thinking that it would—he knew that Wash said that he wasn’t going to be entering the portal, didn’t trust his mind and whatever tricks and trials it would throw at him. Though, the news that Felix pushed him in didn’t surprise him—didn’t surprise the men that Sharkface labeled as _his men_ either.

Washington’s hands won’t stop shaking, no matter how many times he clenched and unclenched them in front of his face. It didn’t matter if he was sitting or standing, that man would shake like a leaf until Sharkface had to tear the man’s helmet from his head and gather him in his arms and ground him with an affectionate touch.

He’s done it twice before the two head mercenaries returned."Oooh, well look at the new love birds!" Felix cooed, rounding the warthog and leaning against the vehicle. The arrival of the two didn’t cause them to jump—they didn’t pull away, _he wouldn’t_ until Washington’s shutters would calm and pass.

He knew the strength of chasing ghosts, the power that would allow them to haunt his mind—they drove him to chase after vengeance, it was the only other thing he could do. He couldn’t let Freelancer just _get away with it_ , even if he had an ex-Freelancer in his arms shaking like a leaf. If anything the weakness only drove his hatred, his need for vengeance to a new extreme—if this is what the project did to one of their own, then he needed to kill anything and everything that claimed Freelancer did any good.

**\--**

It’s not until they're back at the base waiting for the ‘fishes to bite’ does Locus corner the man as he’s entering the room that Locus claimed as his own. He forced both of their helmets off, tossing the armor to the bed and slamming the man against the wall to claim the blond’s lips as his own. Wash covers Locus' lips, catching him before he could kiss him. "I taste like vomit," he warned and just like that the jealousy is gone—the image of Sharkface wrapping the blond in his embrace makes sense, and the anger in his stomach smothered.

Wash wrapped an arm around Locus’ shoulder and pressed their foreheads together instead. The man’s body softened, embracing the former Freelancer as he holds onto him in return. He can feel the crease in Locus' collar that he hasn't gotten to fix yet—this is _his_ Locus. "I saw Epsilon, the fall of Freelancer and all their bodies," he doesn't tell him about the part after that—the thing with Felix and Locus or the reds and blues. He doesn’t need to know about that little fear of his, not with a tension still between them.

Sharkface has that part right though; chasing ghosts will only create more ghosts.


	6. My Lover(s)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to add another relationship tag. Its still not an ideal healthy relationship, anything canon compliant with these boys is.... ehhhhh. 
> 
> But, I've decided to full on combine the two because I have a hatred for love-triangles. The Locus-Sharky aspect is going to be the struggle. But those two are going to have to work on the whole 'possessive behavior is not good'. Its one thing to be said during sexy times but its another for outside of that situation. 
> 
> But anyways, that's just my own thoughts. Sorry for the long wait, I've been trying to get a bunch of GTA AU stuff out :)

**_“What are you wearing?”_** the question had him laughing, a brief moment between the ever present shakes his body had fallen into from his time in that... that portal.

He unbuckled the last of his chest plate, catching it and setting it aside before removing the remaining pieces keeping the back in place. “I’m stripping out of my armor,” Washington answered over their private line. He could hear the feed fizzing, holding on to certain sounds that their words would sound.

 ** _“I haven’t been able to slip into that room of yours yet,”_** the man stated. It was true; they had slipped off the ship and were just as quickly stuffed into the warthogs. **_“You think you can keep Locus out for a bit?”_**

Wash laughed, stripping himself from his shoulders, arms and gauntlets. “Or we can go to your bunk; you’d think you’d want to break it in.”

The man chuckled, **_“I want to sully the bed you share with him. Give you something else to think about when he thinks you’re all his—you know that’s what he thinks, right?”_** Washington continued to strip from his armor until all he was left with was the skin tight Kevlar suit over a pair of skin tight boxer briefs.

Washington sighed, “Do you want the honest answer to that or do you want me to keep this tone we’ve got and ignore that question?” He began to slip out of his second skin, struggling around his left wrist when his right had decided to go all shaky yet again.

**_“Both. Serious first though, we’ve got time.”_ **

He slipped the suit from around his ankles and tossed it into the pile with the rest of his armor before slipping into a pair of track pants and falling back into his and Locus’ bed. “You and I are both well aware that he and Felix are keeping something from me. I have a feeling that _you_ know what they’re keeping hidden though I’m not sure you know about it.” That sounded a little more articulate in his head before he voiced it aloud. “He’s lied to me before...”

Sharkface’s chuckle made his heart flutter. **_“This man is going to hate me as much, if not more, than Felix when I get back and bend you over the first thing I see.”_**

Wash moaned at that mental image, the seriousness melting away for him to return to later. Trailing a hand down over his chest, toying with a nipple with a sharp gasp—the feed picking up the heavy puff that Sharkface let out. “Ask me what I’m wearing.” He shimmied the sweatpants down to his knees.

**_“What are you wearing?”_ **

He slipped a finger beneath the waistband of his boxers. “Just a pair of formfitting boxers,” he moaned, pinching the hardened nub between his thumb and finger. “But I can’t always... _not_. I can have them join my pants around my ankles.”

 ** _“Shit.”_** The feed cut off sharply and the blond haired man couldn’t help but chuckle, picturing the tattooed man slipping off to find a nice spot alone for a few moments. **_“In bed too?”_** Wash nodded only to remember that the man wasn’t _here_. Licking his lips he answered in the positive. **_“Tease. Such a fucking tease, using my own wants against me.”_**

“ _Mmmm,_ what do you want me to do with my hands? You say you want to bend me over and fuck me, but what about after? What about the second time?” He slips his whole hand down the front of his underwear, tugging at the hair around the base of his cock. Sucking in a breath, “I’m _really_ limber. Put my feet behind my head and everything.”

The man moaned, **_“I’ll fuck you on every surface in the base if I have to.”_** Wash shimmied his boxers down his legs until his hardened cock slipped free from its confides. **_“Take you right on the floor, in front of everyone—that fucking asshole, Locus, their pirates—everyone. Just slip right in; you’ll have stretched yourself open for me, your ass all wet.”_**

Wash moaned, wrapping his hand around his cock and pumping. “And what name should I scream? Whose name will you have me begging for?” His other hand sneaking up under the pillow for the container of lube he keeps there for easy access. “Whose name should I moan while fingering my hole open?”

He didn’t give him a minute to cut in with an answer, popping open the cap and coat his palm, fingers—just making a mess out of everything in his haste to lube himself up. To stretch himself open for the man on the other end, for the mental image alone of him taking Washington and fucking him right in the open—right _in front_ of the entire mercenaries army.

There’s a long unnatural pause; Washington sucked in a panicked breath. Did his feed go out? Did Carolina show up? Fuck, did Wash overstep? **_“Terrence. I’ll have you screaming_** _Terrence **. Everyone on this fucking war-torn planet will know just who fucks that ass of yours.”**_ The man chuckles, **_“Isn’t that right_** _David **? Fill you up, fuck you open and dripping with my cum that that green prick knows he doesn’t own you.”**_

Washington moaned, slipping a finger in his ass and thrusting. “Terrence, _oh_ — _Terr_ ence,” it’s a better name than Sharkface to cry out in a fit of passion. It rolls off the tongue, Wash whispering his name with each thrust his fingers take. The air grew muggy in his helmet as his pants filtered out and oxygen began to slip in through the filter.

 ** _“You’re fucking yourself.”_** He states; so proud, so smug. Grunting into his com-link, panting when Washington’s moans answered him.

Arching off the bed, Wash slipped another finger in—then another in quick succession. It burned—it felt _good_ to hurt after all the shit that he saw. After all the stuff he’d do. He had already begun relaying all the information that he had on Kimball and Doyle, their armies and the Reds and Blues, and even Carolina to Locus and his men. Slipping in as much information as he could before slipping back into his and Locus’ room when his shakes would grow worse.

It felt _good_ to have this man whisper, moan, and demand Washington to fuck himself—to take his cock in hand and finish. **_“That’s right Freelancer, you’re mine.”_**  He could’ve corrected him, could’ve told him that he was _his_ just as much as he was _Locus’_ if that were the case. But the possessive snarl had him spilling, had him crying out as he spasmed and clamped down on his fingers. It had him coating his chest in cum and listening to the man on the other end come undone with _David_ on his lips.

“Thank you,” Wash panted, wiping away the mess of semen with one of his forgotten socks littering the floor beside the bed. He slipped both his boxers and pants up his legs before slipping under the covers.

 ** _“I’ll kill your little former companions before rushing back and warming that bed of yours,”_** the man chuckled, **_“until then Washington.”_**

He slipped the helmet from his head when the feed dropped dead. The grey and yellow helmet slipping from his fingers, the piece of armor went clattering—rolling under the bed as the man curled in on himself. “Be save,” he whispered, turning into the pillows and settling in.

\--

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking, body shivering in the middle of the night as Locus wrapped him up in a tight embrace. Washington was staying in the base, staying behind as Locus met Kimball and her soldiers on the battlefield. “Don’t underestimate them,” Washington repeats as Locus’ fingers trace up the dip of his naked hip. The man’s lips sliding over Washington’s shoulders and up his neck in warm moist kisses.

Sharkface was waiting still, radio silent as they waited for the Reds and Blues to arrive—they would arrive. Felix had been pacing, wearing a small groove into the floor as he waited for the news. He wanted them dead and he wanted them dead months ago.

“You had a hand in training them,” Locus whispered against his skin, sucking a mark against the scared and freckled flesh. Smirking when he pulled a light moan from the man; a hand slipping forward, cupping his flaccid cock. He fondled the life into the organ, grinding forwards against those cheeks when the man moaned. “I’ll be back in a matter of hours,” he boasted, rolling the man onto his back and slipping between his thighs with ease.

The man wrapped his arms around Locus’ shoulders, fisting a hand in his long hair and pulling him down to press their lips together. Their erections grinding together as Locus rolled his hips, as Washington bucked up of the bed. “Don’t leave me,” he hissed, tightening his hold on the man’s hair. “Don’t you fucking leave me.”

Locus could only shake his head; could only promise him, over and over again in-between the slide of tongues and press of lips. As he slid into the body and, dare he say, made love to the man he adored. The man was _his_ , The Shark could smirk and suggest all he wished but at the end of the day it was Locus who curled against Washington’s back and made love to him.

\--

He loved him—he loves him, he knows that. He knows that and yet he still longs for Sharkface all the same. Just the thought of the man made his veins burn, made the comfortable coldness he gathered from Locus dissipate. He loves Locus; he will not deny that just as he refuses to deny the gut instinct that screams that his lover is hiding things from him.

He loves Locus yet he feels like... he’s not _enough_. It doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t understand it, doesn’t understand the dangerous attraction that he has towards these two men—killers, _they’re killers_. But, then so was Washington.


End file.
